


Lit you up like a star.

by leathermouthed



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathermouthed/pseuds/leathermouthed
Summary: He’s like a supernova, Bucky thinks absentmindedly. He shines bright, bright, and he can almost touch the warmth that comes off him. He could swear Steve feeds on everything that surrounds him only to give back more than he took.“Well, Bucky, it was really nice to meet you.” And it comes out so sincere that he believes it, he believes that Steve really is glad he met him, if only to spend a couple of hours together on a train.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a comment on [ tumblr ](https://buckymademedoit.tumblr.com/ask) !

_Why don’t you rest your fragile bones_   
_A minute ago you looked alone_   
_Stop waving your arms, you’re safe and dry_   
_Breathe in and drink up the winter sky._

Bucky doesn’t like train stations.

The constant flow of people, all of them so wrapped up in their own world that they barely bat an eyelid after knocking the breath out of someone with a suitcase. The heavy murmur, like a bee stuck in your ear that just _won’t shut up_. The smell of the alleys, that constant humid air, the smoke coming off the machines, the noise.

Bucky really doesn’t like train stations.

He looks up when he hears the call, he has to board.

He’s completely numb, almost asleep on his feet as he steps slowly through the queue. There’s people all around him, pushing and pulling and talking, talking, talking. He would be a second away from a panic attack, if he could feel anything, that is.

He reflexively holds his ticket out to the hand stretched out in front of him, and makes the effort to listen to the seat number being spat at him.

The hall is really small, he almost has to turn and walk on his side. There’s people asking for numbers, kids running around like this is the best adventure they could’ve gotten in, babies crying, noise, noise, noise.

He almost has the strength to sigh in relief when he finds out his compartment, meant for two,  to be empty. He sits down , leaving his small bag carelessly next to him.

Who would’ve thought a life could be packed up in a simple bag. Who would’ve thought twenty five years could be squashed in such a small place.

It’s probably not as hard to figure out, now that he thinks about it. Everything we have, everything we possess, everything is meaningless.  Everything is designed for comfort; Bucky doesn’t depend on his bed, his fridge, his desk or his carpet. And electronics are just made to make people feel less lonely while encouraging loneliness at the same time. It’s quite a contradiction itself, but he firmly believes it’s true. Every new gadget or social media improvement, they make you feel less alone, but they close you up more than before too. They give the illusion of company, but you go to sleep to an empty bed at night.  

So yes, Bucky’s life was easily packed up in a backpack when he had to leave.

When he was forced to leave his life behind.

Bucky sees the world in grey. He lost his ability to enjoy colors, a year ago. Everything is just... the same.

A year ago, when his father’s gambling debts caught up with him and Bucky’s life crumbled down like the crystal of a window after a well aimed rock.

For a year he forgot what it was to rest, to close his eyes at night, to go pick his sister at school, to _leave the house_ . Because they were there, always there, waiting.  
His father had messed up with the wrong kind of people, and Bucky’s family had to pay the price.

It was a year of pure torture. Of sleepless nights and restless days, of a constant state of paranoia. The smallest of sounds would have everyone jumping at the table, the sound of a car in the middle of the night would have his father running downstairs and his mother locking herself up in Bucky’s room with him and Rebecca, his little sister.  There was no one they could trust, anyone could have a knife behind their backs.

Bucky though, he thinks he got the worst part and he’s glad. He’s glad it wasn’t his Ma, or his father or, _God forbid_ , Becca.

He had been so careful though, so so careful when walking back home from the grocery store, he really thought this time there was no one around.

Boy, how wrong he was.

They didn’t even call his father. They were not asking for money this time, they were delivering a message. Bucky didn’t know it by then, when he’d held his breath waiting for the punches and kicks and cuts to come, once they got him out of the van and dropped him on the floor with a black bag on his head. He thought that was it, he was dead. He was the payment of his father’s debt.

But no.

Instead, they dragged him into some room. He could hear all the footsteps, shouts and murmurs, the clank of metal, the rustle of their clothes and his own heart beating like a drum.

The only thing he remembers before he passed out, was the pain. A pain like he’d never felt before crawling up his left arm. A pain he never thought was _possible_ to feel, and a noise so loud it made his ears hurt. His own screams, he realized days later when he woke up from a nightmare. Because as soon as they were finished they dropped him back home, ever the gentlemen.

To this day, he doesn’t know what liquid they dipped him into. Burning oil? Acid? Whatever it was, it ate up his skin like it was cotton candy. The first couple of months afterwards were torture, his entire arm was a raw wound, bloody and swollen and so, so disgusting. He thought he was gonna lose it, it looked _rotten_. And the pain, he couldn’t sleep from it.

Eventually it started healing, and Bucky hated it even more. He had horrible scars all the way up to his shoulder, full on Freddy Krueger style. Which, honestly, was some kind of cosmic joke because of course Bucky had a _Friday the 13th_ poster on the back of his bedroom door. Well he used to, anyway. He tore it to shreds one night when he couldn't sleep from the pain pulsing through his entire arm.

Bucky blinks a few times and snaps back from his daze, sees the landscape passing by through the train’s window. He bites his lip, his hand tugging absentmindedly at his long sleeve, pulling it past his wrist bunching it up inside his fist.

It doesn’t hurt that much anymore, his arm.  

It doesn’t hurt but god, he hates it with the passion of a burning sun. He feels broken and abused. Every time he looks at it, every time he feels the twisted skin, his eyes water. Somehow it represents everything he lost. And it’s not his fault, he knows it was never his fault he was just… collateral damage. But Bucky had already lost so much, his family, his career, his friends, himself, he doesn’t really think they _had_ to wreck him like that.

When he looks at himself now he doesn’t recognize the reflection. He sees a broken young man with nothing left to lose except his stubborn head. Because damn him if he’s gonna let anyone take that away from him.

Maybe except for his father. Because in the end, he took Bucky’s right to choose and made the choice for him. After a year of living like that, Bucky’s father took the decision that became the boot stomping on the broken pieces of glass that used to be his life. They knew there was no way out for them, no place to run where they wouldn’t be found. So they sent Becca off to some cousin of her mother’s house, all the way in Europe. And him, well…

“ _You’re old enough to be on your own now, James. You need to leave this place_.”

And that was it.

He couldn’t think of what it meant to leave or he wouldn’t have. So he grabbed every bill he had saved, packed his backpack, hugged his mother and kissed her tear away. He shook his father’s hand and saw him flinch at the feeling of his consumed skin, guilt, possibly; and walked out of his house.

He’s sitting on a train on his way to Brooklyn now, leaving good old home and his life behind,  without plans of ever coming back, just like his parents had told him.

He focuses again as he stares out at the window and sees a blur of gray. Almost like watching a painting after someone rubbed a cloth over it while it still was wet. Gray blurred trees, gray blurred sky, gray blurred everything.

He wonders for a second if he’ll ever appreciate the blue of the sky in the morning again, or the pink orange of a sunset, or feel the warmth of a smile, see the sparkle in someone’s eyes. He soon stores the thought in the very back of his mind, inside that old battered box that he never opens.

The thought that he doesn’t even know where he’s going, where is he going to sleep tonight, how is he going to eat tomorrow, strikes him and for a second his eyes widen, barely noticeable. Then he breathes out and exhales the thought along with the unnecessary carbon dioxide in his lungs.

He thinks about closing his eyes, finally. He can do it now, there’s no one waiting for him on a corner in the street, or in his backyard, no more very real monsters under his bed. It almost makes him smile. Almost.

So he hesitantly closes his eyes, body tense and jaw set. It takes him almost an hour to relax, to accept that he can finally close his eyes and _rest_. Breathe in, breathe out, slow, slow, slower.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thrilled because people are reading this thing omg.  
> Updates every sunday!!  
> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://buckymademedoit.tumblr.com/ask)!! I would LOVE to know what you think!

The door of the compartment sliding open jolts Bucky awake. 

It takes a moment and then everything comes crashing down in his mind, that he’s on a train on his way to Brooklyn, that said train has stopped at another station, that he has two hands, two feet, a heart that’s beating too fast, a head that is spinning like a washing machine, and that there’s a high probability that there’s a gun pointed to his father’s temple on that very moment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The voice startles him again. He looks up, he’s not alone in his compartment anymore, it seems, but then again the strength to even frown about it is not in him.

“’s okay,” he mumbles, because as numb as he is, his mother raised him to be a gentleman, and the least he can do right now is at least  _ try _ and answer as politely as he can manage, thank you very much.

The man sits in front of him and stretches his hand. “Steve,” he says brightly, and there’s a star tattooed on his wrist.

His right arm weighs like the world but he forces himself to shake his hand, muttering  a barely audible “Bucky” in return.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” the man, Steve, says; smiling widely at him. 

It makes Bucky want to smile back, unconsciously. This guy has a 100 watt smile and it’s contagious, somehow. He doesn’t, though. He hasn’t in a long while. He manages a nod and hopes it’s enough for him. 

It seems like it is, cause he grins even wider and leans back against his seat, pulling out a book that he doesn’t open from his bag and setting his gaze on the window. 

The silence is nice, Bucky likes silence now that he’s not waiting for a sound to break it and for his father’s footsteps running down the stairs. 

It doesn’t last too long though.

“You look like shit.” Steve says. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I mean, are you okay? You look like you could use a glass of vodka, or twenty.” And only when Bucky pays attention, does he hear the hint of concern behind this stranger’s blunt words.

“Long story,” he says, just to make him quiet down again.

“We have time,” he counters.

“I don’t know you,” Bucky tries again.

“Even better, I won’t judge.”

It feels strange, such interest and maybe even concern coming from a, well, a  _ stranger _ . But Bucky has been bottling it up for more than a year, because he had no one to talk to, no one that would listen without interrupting, no one that would tell him ‘hey, it’s gonna be fine’. And maybe he won’t hear that from this unknown man sitting in front of him on a train, but there’s something about him, something that has Bucky letting out a sigh, and telling him his whole story, bit by bit. And he listens. Steve listens and nods and gasps and frowns and leans closer, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, his eyes fixed on Bucky’s. He listens to every word like he’s listening to the most important thing he’ll ever know.

“… And I don’t even know where am I going to go once we get to the station, and…” Bucky takes a deep breath, holds for a second, and lets go.  “yeah, that’s pretty much it.” He finishes.

“Wow.”

“Wow.”  

“I’m staying at the hostel right next to the station for tonight, I have a different train to catch tomorrow morning. I know the owner of the place, so I stay for free. Anyway, point is, you could stay there too? I’m pretty sure they have plenty of rooms left and I can hook you up with a freebie.”

Steve doesn’t even mention that he’s just heard what he’s just heard, and Bucky is a little awestruck but mostly very very glad. He needed to say it out loud, to take it out of his system, but he doesn’t want to answer questions. Steve seems to notice, or maybe he’s just like that. Any way, Bucky likes it.

“I didn’t know about the place, I don’t lie when I say I have no idea of where I’m going. But now that you mention it, yes, I could do that, thank you.”

“No problem,” he smiles brightly at him, and that’s it, the comfortable silence settles back in, only this time, Bucky feels like the ton of bricks he was carrying on his shoulders is not that heavy anymore.

It doesn’t take more than five minutes for Steve to start chatting again, this time about the book he’s reading. Bucky’s answers are short, calculated, but he would be lying if he said that the constant rumble of Steve’s voice doesn’t relax him. So he lets him babble away about books and movies and art and cities and just… listens.

 

 

Steve guides him to the hostel he mentioned that night, rambling about some band Bucky has never heard of and their new album and how it  _ blew his mind off _ , while he downs the small pack of gummy bears he bought at the station. He bought one for Bucky too, he saved it in his pocket, he couldn’t tell him that he doesn’t really like gummy bears.

They get their respective rooms keys, and this is it. Bucky somehow wishes he could steal some of this guy’s energy and bottle it up, keep it with him. Because this boy, this stranger, might just be the best thing that has ever happened to him in a long time. He’s like a supernova, Bucky thinks absentmindedly. He shines bright, bright, and he can almost  _ touch _ the warmth that comes off him. He could swear Steve feeds on everything that surrounds him only to give back more than he took. 

“Well, Bucky,” he says as they reach his room, pulling him out of his thoughts. “It was really nice to meet you.” And it comes out so sincere that he believes it, he believes that Steve really  _ is _ glad he met him, if only to spend a couple of hours together on a train.

“You too,” he says. And then, voice lower, “and thank you.”

Steve grins at him and he’s almost blind, it’s like staring into the sun, his smile. It’s only then when Bucky realizes how blue and pretty Steve’s eyes are. 

“Oh!” Steve says suddenly and holds up a finger to Bucky, signaling him to wait, and he almost looks like some cartoon. He digs in his bag and takes out a pen and a piece of paper, and  _ who even carries a pen around anymore?   _ “Here,” he says and slaps the paper to Bucky’s chest, scribbling something down. He folds it and gives it to him, closing his palm around it. “Don’t trust modern technology,” he whispers conspiratorially and yes, a corner of Bucky’s mouth twists up at that because  _ who even is this guy _ . “Anyway, you know, if you ever need something.” Steve shrugs and grins up at him again. “Goodbye, Bucky.” 

Steve kisses his cheek, turns around and when Bucky blinks, there’s a closed door in front of him. 

It takes him minutes to get his legs to work.

He goes to his room, and even if there’s nothing to worry about, even if he doesn’t have to stay up to watch out for cars or silhouettes, Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night.

Because he feels it.

The heat where Steve’s lips touched him, he  _ feels _ it.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!!!! More character introductions but the big day will come soon.  
> Updates every sunday.  
> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://buckymademedoit.tumblr.com/ask)!!   
> I would LOVE to know what you think, honestly.

 

 

It’s been six months since Bucky moved to New York. 

It took him a few days but he managed to get himself a job at garage that, according to his coworker, used to be a car repair shop but over time it turned into a “ _ we will repair every single kind of machine that you wanna bring us, and we’ll even go to your place if you ask nicely enough _ ” kinda gig. The pay is surprisingly good, his coworker is good, his boss is good. 

It hurts, sometimes, when he remembers helping his mother around in the house since he was a kid. It hurts even more when a couple of days after he got to Brooklyn, he found out he’d been right about the gun being pointed at his father’s temple. And his mother’s. 

But he didn’t have time to mourn, he couldn’t allow himself to. Not when he had to work to buy his food and pay his rent and not when he had finally started to think this could really be a good idea, the starting all over thing. And he’s doing good, so far. He wants to make his mother proud.  He wants to make it worth it, the fact that he’s alive, that he escaped, because sometimes it doesn’t let him sleep at night.

He’s living in a little, maybe too little, apartment a few blocks away from the shop. The old lady that rented it to him is lovely, and has almost adopted him as her own grandson by now. He’s pretty sure he’s not even paying her what he should, that she’s going easy on him, and as much as it hurts his pride, deep down he’s very thankful.  He visits her every now and then with a little box of just-baked cupcakes that he gets on the bakery across the street, she smiles up at him like she knows the secrets of the world and lets him in for a cup of coffee.

Oh, and he’s studying. Taking night classes. He had to drop off Uni because they couldn’t afford it, the flat and the books and the employee that was taking his place in his father’s store back home. It had been a low blow, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. 

Luckily they accepted most of the courses he had already done, because they were straight A’s and after the interview they must’ve seen Bucky’s potential, he hopes, so he’s back in track and starting on his second year in Engineering. He thinks of his mother, of how she had always told him how proud she was of him, she had always encouraged him to be his best self, and the pain subdues just a little bit, thinking that he’s doing right by her, he’s trying and working so hard to be the best he can be. 

So yeah, maybe he works more hours than he should, and maybe he sleeps less than he should, but he’s okay, or getting there.

The nightmares don’t go away, neither does the guilt that eats him up for being alive. But little by little, he stops flinching at every sound that breaks through the silence at night, and he forces himself to think of it as progress.

He’s learning to live with the hole in his chest, the space that his parents left. 

He still hates his reflection in the mirror. Still covers his arm, thankful of the gloves he has to wear at work. He still cries himself to sleep every single night, sometimes in silence, sometimes the sobs wrack through his body like thunder. But he’s stubborn, so he gets up the next day, and the next, and the next. Just for today, he tells himself every morning, just for today.

He got in touch with his aunt in London, and got himself a phone so he can video-call Becca every night. They miss each other so much it hurts, but Becca has a good life with their aunt and he’s not nearly stable enough to try and bring her back with him. She agrees, surprisingly so, tells him that she’s back in school, already got herself some new friends, and she’s trying very hard. His mother did such a good job with both her children, Bucky thinks and feels his heart shrink.

And if he spends ten minutes staring at the little paper stuck to his desk every night, if he stills remembers the warm feeling on his cheek, if he still loses sleep wondering what would’ve happened if he’d just dialed the number the day after, well, that’s another story.

 

 

*  


 

Bucky’s running late for work and he hates it. He hates to be late but hey, it’s not his fault. He was leaving his flat when he got a text from his boss-turned-friend asking him to _ please, please, please  _ get him some anti allergics on a pharmacy because  _ he’s dying. _

Ah, welcome, dear spring.

As soon as he opens the shop’s door he gets ambushed by Clint, his boss, well, friend now.

“Do you have them, Barnes?” he asks, all over Bucky’s face because if there is something that Clint Barton doesn’t have, is respect for personal space. 

“Well good morning to you too, sweetheart” Bucky grumbles, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses as he slaps the box against Clint’s chest. He walks past Clint as he eats two pills like candy, and heads to the back of the shop, leaving his stuff on the back. He shrugs out of his jacket, ties his hair in a loose bun and puts his gloves on.

He comes out to stand behind the counter, checking today’s jobs from their list, and Clint is back, this time shoving a steaming cup of coffee on Bucky’s face which he gladly takes.

“Good morning my sunshine, thank you so much for bringing my pills”, Clint says and smacks a kiss on Bucky’s cheek.

“Well I didn’t want you dying on me now, ‘s my free day tomorrow.”

Clint gasps obnoxiously, a hand to his chest. “And here I thought we had something pure and beautiful. We’d walk hand in hand into the horizon. You wound me, Barnes.”

“Yeah, I bet you had the wedding rings in your pocket. Does Natasha know about us?” And it’s amazing really, how the joke leaves Clint’s eyes in favor of a dreamy face at the mere thought of his girlfriend. Sometimes Bucky mentions her just to see the change on his friend’s face, wondering if he’ll ever feel something like that. It’s fleeting though, just a second before Clint replies.

“My dude, she’s part of the  _ us _ . Really, I don’t know why you keep rejecting us.”

Bucky laughs at that, and the notion that he wouldn’t be nowhere near where he is today if it wasn’t for Clint passes his mind. It wasn’t only the job, it was everything else actually. Clint became the first actual friend Bucky’d had in  _ years _ , Clint with his bad sleeping habits and even worse coffee habits. Clint with everyone else he’d brought with him, right into Bucky’s life: Sam, the other employee at the shop; Natasha, Scott whenever he was in town and Lucky of course, Clint’s dog.

Bucky never thought he’d settle like this, after leaving everything behind. He was far from where he hoped he could be, yet; but way past where he thought he would ever get. 

Without ever seeing it coming he’d gotten himself into this mismatched awkward family, and even though his wounds were still tender, even though it wasn’t easy for him to sleep at night, somehow the smoke in his lungs had become lighter. 

Two weeks after he started working at the shop,  Clint showed up at his place unannounced with three pizza boxes in hand, claiming to be bored as introduction before letting himself into Bucky’s flat, dumping the pizzas on the coffee table, and walking to the kitchen to rummage through the fridge looking for something to drink. Bucky didn’t move from the door, at first because he was having a hard time calming his body from the almost panic attack of having his door knocked on at one AM; second, because  _ what the fuck, Clint. _

And it all went down from there, really. Next thing he knew, they had been having pizza thursdays for a month now, and Sam was there too. 

He’d met Natasha a couple of weeks after that night, when she stopped by at the shop. Bucky was torn between his inability to stop staring at her and the physical need to look down whenever she stared back, because damn, he’d never seen someone so beautiful and so intimidating-borderline-scary in his entire life.  She was a vision among the dirt and darkness of the shop. Natasha moved like a tiger about to strike, and Bucky couldn’t do much as he looked at her like a frightened deer when she stopped talking to Clint and strolled through the shop towards him. He was holding his breath, feeling scanned from head to toe even if the counter covered half of his body. Somehow he felt that Natasha disapproving of him was the dealbreaker. She stopped at the counter, stared at him and raised an eyebrow. Bucky winced. She blew her bubblegum and the  _ pop _ made him blink twice, his palms sweating. And then, like strings had been cut, her whole posture changed, her shoulders relaxing as she stretched a hand to him with a soft smile. 

“Bucky, right?” He nodded. “Natasha, nice to meet you. I’ve heard of you.”

“Good things, I hope”, Bucky said and meant it, taking her hand in a firm shake.

“Mostly”, Natasha smirked and turned around, walking back to Clint to say her goodbyes. She kissed him, and Bucky noticed how her face softened for a second before she was walking out, waving a quick “See you around Bucky” without turning back.

Bucky stared at the door and then at Clint, and if he hadn’t been so tense from the encounter he would’ve been laughing at Clint’s dopey smile. After a moment Clint looked back at Bucky and seemed to catch on the tense line of his shoulders.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” He said.

“She is.”

“You might not believe it, but she actually really liked you.”

“Well,” Bucky visibly relaxed at that, “I can’t really tell but I’ll trust you.”

“Barnes, believe me when I tell you you would’ve known if she hadn’t.”

And then again that was pretty much it. Eventually, Bucky found out that Natasha was actually a sassy little shit with a very sharp sense of humor when she was comfortable enough to let herself go, and it didn’t take much for them to become friends, and for him to see why Clint and her had clicked like they did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://buckymademedoit.tumblr.com/ask)!! your comments give me life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!!!! Big day today!!!!  
> Updates every sunday.  
> Feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://buckymademedoit.tumblr.com/ask)!!  
> I would LOVE to know what you think ♥

 

 

Time keeps passing by and Bucky’s life is pretty much the same. Work, study, hang out with the guys, rinse, repeat. 

He likes it, though. Keeps feeling a little bit better as time goes by. He misses Becca like hell, though; and the loss of his parents hits him way too late, after months, when he’s finally settling and letting some of his guard down. 

He feels sad but mostly guilty, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He feels guilty for being the one that got away, can’t help but think maybe he could’ve done something else to help.

“Don’t you think you already gave enough for something that wasn’t yours to fix to begin with?” Sam says one day, looking pointedly at Bucky’s left arm after he voiced his inner turmoil out loud.

Maybe, he thinks, looking down at the nasty skin on his left hand, thinking about everything he had to give up to get away.

Sam keeps looking at him, raises an eyebrow and Bucky knows he ain’t judging, he never would. Bucky knows he’s just trying to make him think, to realize that blaming himself for something that was never in his control is just pointless. Bucky gets it sometimes, he does, but there’s this voice in the back of his brain that every once in a while makes him doubt it, makes him look hard at himself in his bathroom mirror and ask  _ why are you here? _

He feels lonely, sometimes, and thinks that maybe that’s the sole cause of the voice. It’s when he’s all alone that it comes up, after all.

He knows he’s not alone. He knows he has Clint and Sam and Nat, that they have his back no matter what, he knows this. But he’s lonely. 

He absolutely hates to come home to an empty flat. He hates to wake up alone, have breakfast alone, and have no one to come home to.

It’s funny  considering Clint offered to share a flat, but Bucky wasn’t ready for that yet. As much as he hates to be alone, he’s not ready to let someone into his space and see him vulnerable.

Bucky wakes up almost every night screaming, damp in a cold sweat with tears in his eyes and a phantom pain shooting through his left arm.

Bucky sometimes cries himself to sleep, still, missing everything he used to be.

Bucky wears long sleeves during the summer because he hasn’t come to terms with his arm yet.

Some days he spends entire afternoons balled up on the couch, shaking from the pain coursing through his arm. It happens, sometimes, that it hurts like the day it happened.

Definitely not ready to bunk up with Clint, or anyone, for that matter.

So he swallows the bad taste the thoughts leave in his mouth, and leaves his house with his chin up.

One more day, one more step to getting there, wherever  _ there _ is.

Just for today.

He’s got this.

 

*

 

“Do you have plans on friday night?” Natasha asks from the other end of the couch, face blocked by the book she’s reading.

They hang out sometimes, the two of them. Mostly on Bucky’s days off, when Clint and Sam cover at the shop. She’s lying on the couch, her legs crossed over Bucky’s thigs as he stares at the TV, PlayStation controller in his hands. Clint gave it to him a couple of months ago after getting himself the new model. It’s nice to be like this, and Bucky’s glad that him and Nat found their shared love for silent company, something almost impossible to get with Clint and Sam around.

“You know I don’t”, he says, then grumbles something under his breath and shakes the joystick.

“A friend of mine’s coming to town and we’re having a little get together. I haven’t decided if I’ll cook or order out, or if we’re gonna hang out here all night or go out later, but you should come.” She nudges at his ribs with a socked foot.

“You never cook for me”, he says faking offence, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.

“I made you home made arabian three nights ago.”

“Bla bla bla, can’t hear you. Anyway, sure, why not, I’ll be there.”

“Cool” Nat says and goes back to her book.

 

*

 

Friday night rolls by soon enough and Bucky’s on his way to Clint’s after getting a much needed shower after work. He smelled of gasoline and dirt, grease stains all over his arms and face. He’s used to it by now, he’s always covered in dirt and grease and sometimes he even finds it comforting, a small reminder of the new life he’s trying to put together by himself.

He buys a six pack on his way, thinking at least he’s got to bring  _ something _ and beer is always welcome. Natasha never told him about this friend of hers, but he’s guessing she’s probably a friend from college since they haven’t seen each other for so long. Clint and Sam will be there too, probably Scott too, so he’s fine.

Pretty much everyone is already at Nat’s place when he arrives, and he gets a warning look from Clint when he opens the door for him. “Nat’s cooking” he whispers into Bucky’s ear, “do not go into the kitchen, I repeat, do not go into the kitchen”.

“Got it”, Bucky says and walks in, leaving the six pack on the dinner table before hugging Sam hello.

It’s the four of them apparently, Scott couldn’t get his night off work, which sucks.

“So, when’s the party girl arriving?” Bucky asks to the room.

“Any time now,” Natasha answers from the kitchen. “and please do not refrain from calling him  _ party girl _ to his face when he arrives, he’ll love it.”

Bucky laughs at that, because yeah maybe it was a bit stupid of him to just assume it was a girl Natasha was talking about all this time.

Bucky finally takes the risk to walk into the kitchen, placing a soft kiss on Natasha’s cheek and offering to set the table.

“Thank you”, she says and sounds relieved. “You know where everything is, just grab the black plates.”

“Sure thing”.

Bucky comes out of the kitchen, five plates in hand, and starts setting the table.

“How did you walk out of there untouched?” Clint asks from the couch, Lucky sprawled all over his lap as he rubs the dog’s belly.

“Well, I offered some help. Which I’m guessing is not what you did whenever you walked into the  kitchen.”

Clint has the guts to smile up at him, not one ounce of guilt on his face.

A couple of minutes later and the table is set, Natasha’s bringing the food, which to everyone’s delight is mexican, and Bucky has yet to find something Natasha is actually bad at.

Everything is ready to go and as if on cue, the doorbell rings.

“I hate that he always arrives after we’ve set the table” Clint complains.

“We?” Says Bucky from the other end on the table.

“Hush, children”, Nat waves a dismissive hand at them as she walks to the door.

There’s a soft hi and then Nat is being enveloped in two huge arms. Bucky has never seen Natasha displaying affections, so he thinks that college-friend-guy must be a very very important friend of hers, and he wonders why he never heard of the guy before. But then again, it’s Natasha.

The hug breaks, and Nat turns around, bringing college-friend-guy into the flat.

Bucky can’t catch his face before Clint jumps the guy, who catches him easily, clearly used to Clint’s ways. “My favorite geriatric”, Clint says and college-friend-guy laughs loud. It rings in Bucky’s ear for a second.

Clint gets put down and Natasha finally makes the introductions.

“Guys, this is Steve, my best friend since I can remember. Steve, this is Sam” Nat says and Sam takes a step from where he was leaning on the couch’s back, shaking the guy’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, man.” He says warmly and Steve smiles.

“Likewise.”

“And that grump over there is Bucky,” Nat says pointing at the table Bucky’s standing next to, his eyes wide and mouth clamped shut, his jaw ticking. Because Bucky doesn’t forget easily and he would never forget blue eyes like those. “Bucky, this is Steve” Nat finishes, already sensing the strange tension on Bucky’s shoulders, and hearing the smallest intake of breath from Steve.

They stare at each other for a second too long, until Steve gears into action and takes two steps towards him, stretching his hand. “Hi Bucky”, he says, because  _ nice to meet you _ wouldn’t do it.

“Steve”, Bucky says and he sounds so off to his own ears he almost winces. “It’s nice to, um, hi.”

Clint saves the day by jumping behind Bucky and wrapping an arm over his shoulders “Forgive him,” he says to Steve, “Our baby Buckster is very new to this whole socializing thing that comes with the modern world.”

Steve laughs and the tension breaks. Bucky rolls his eyes but thanks Clint in his mind, he wouldn’t have known how to get out from that alone.

Dinner goes on like nothing ever happened. Nat forces Steve to tell her everything he’s been up to, and Bucky tries not to combust in his seat.

Steve is a graphic designer, Bucky finds out, he’s been traveling and working freelance. Him and Nat know each other since childhood, something about neighbours and their mothers being friends.

“Steve here was the size of a pigeon when we were kids, all skin and bones tiny little thing”, Nat chimes in and Steve huffs out a laugh. Bucky has a hard time picturing it.

Steve breaks it to everyone that he will be moving back to Brooklyn in a month and a half, he came here to seal the flat deal and sign the job contract to be an illustrator for a media content firm. He’s happy about it, keeping the privileges of working from home but having a secured paycheck every month. 

“Freelancing keeps you on edge all the time, when the offer came up I knew I had to take it. God knows I need calmer days” he laughs and Natasha kisses the top of his head as she places new bottles of beer on the table.

“We’re glad to have you back” she says and Steve smiles, looking up at her.

“Aw,  _ Nat _ , are you saying you missed me?”

“Don’t push it, Rogers”, she says and sits back down at the table.

“It’s as close to ‘I missed you’ as you’re ever gonna get, buddy”, Clint supplies.

“I know”, Steve smiles, raises his beer to Nat and takes a sip.  _ I missed you too. _

Dinner  goes by quick, and soon enough they’re all scattered around the flat. Sam and Clint sitting on the couch pulling a stack of cards out, Steve talking to Natasha near the kitchen, and Bucky still sitting at the table.

He can’t take his eyes away from him. The Steve from his memory looks so fogged in comparison to the real one, and Bucky thinks that he never actually took the time to look him over, back then. The only clear memory he had of the guy was his face.

But now, sitting at the table and trying hard to seem inconspicuous as he stares at Steve, leaning against the kitchen counter, beer in hand, well, he’s getting a whole new perspective on the guy.

He’s very tall, he remembers that. He didn’t remember Steve being so big, though. The guy’s all muscle and the clothes he wears do very little to hide that. He’s got style though, if the gray washed jeans and the navy blue v-neck sweater are anything to go by. What has Bucky’s mind tripping all over itself, though, is Steve’s face. Because he did remember it clearly, short hair, clean-shaven, big smile, the prettiest baby blues. He looks up again just in time to see Steve laughing, a whole body laugh that has him throwing his head back, slapping a hand to his chest. His hair is long, styled back, and - Bucky grabs his bottle of beer, taking a swing not to bite his lip - he’s got this beard going on, dark and thick and it frames his face just right, makes his smile bigger and his eyes brighter, it that’s even possible, and it does _ things _ to Bucky’s brain.

He stands up from the table and heads out to the balcony for a smoke, because  _ Jesus _ , he can’t get it together. All this time and he’d finally convinced himself that the guy from the train he remembered was his own mind’s idealization, after such a long time. But now Steve’s come barreling into his life again, if only for another fleeting night, with his loud laugh and soft eyes and he isn’t anywhere near what Bucky remembered him to be, he’s so much more. So much more Bucky has no idea what to  do with it, because he’d kept this strangers memory close to his heart, being the first good thing that had happened to him after the mess. He’d held Steve’s memory dear, knowing that he’d never see him again. But now he’s here and Bucky doesn’t really know how to act, because he feels like he knows the guy even though he doesn’t. He wants to hug him, and maybe just maybe he wants to kiss him breathless. Maybe. 

He doesn’t.

Except he totally does.

His intentions of calming his nerves go to hell the moment Steve walks out to meet him, leaning against the balcony rail next to him.

“What were the chances?” Steve asks, his smile so wide and genuine and directed at him only that Bucky wants to  _ die _ because Steve is honest to god happy to see him again and Bucky is having such a hard time believing this is real.

“None, if you would’ve asked me eight months ago”, he says, and he can’t help the tiny shy smile that forms on his mouth.

“How’ve you been?”

“Better. Good, I’ve been good. Thanks to this bunch”, Bucky says, pointing his head towards their friends as they jump all over each other on the coffee table in a wild round of  _ UNO _ .  And it’s so easy, he thinks, talking to Steve.

“How’s um… Rebecca?” Steve asks again, and Bucky makes a double take at him because it’s impossible that he remembers his sister’s name after so long. He shouldn’t even remember Bucky himself, but then again, this is Steve we’re talking about, and if there’s something Bucky remembers about their brief encounter is the amount of information the guy could have stored up inside that head.

“She’s great actually, all things considered”, Bucky says, turning around to stub his cigarette in the ashtray. “She started school not too long after moving to England and made friends. Talked to her last night, she’s happy there, doing great at school. She even joined a volley team”.

“That’s great, I’m glad she’s happy.” If Steve sees the sadness that creeps up Bucky’s eyes as he talks about his sister, he doesn’t mention it.

“Yeah, me too, I know that I wouldn’t have been able to give her that kinda life on my own.”

“You would have,” Steve says without a second thought. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Bucky bites his lower lip. He’s about to reply when Nat comes through the door.

“Having fun, boys?”

She’s smirking like she knows more than they do and it makes Bucky want to vanish right there.

“How can we not?” Steve quips. “There’s beer and homemade food and this  _ gorgeous _ redhead that’s driving me nuts.” He says, makes Nat laugh, and the moment passes.

They go back inside, join the rest of the group on the table just as Clint pulls out Cards Against Humanity.

This is nice, Bucky thinks, and tries very hard not to stare at Steve too much.

“Well,” Sam says after another hour, “As pleasant as this has been, my comrades, I’ll be on my way.” 

“I’ll come with,” Bucky says. Sam lives a few blocks away from his house anyway, he could use the company. Not like he’s jumping  on this excuse so he doesn’t have to stay and face Natasha’s questions later, because of-fucking-course there will be questions after everyone else is gone. And definitely not because he’s a coward and he needs to get away from Steve.

He ignores Natasha’s pointed glare as he hugs Clint goodbye, ignores the whispered  _ “you’re not getting away with this _ ” in his ear as he hugs Nat goodbye, and ignores the tightness in his chest as he goes for a handshake with Steve only for the blonde to pull him into a quick hug.

“See you around Bucky,” Steve says and it’s hushed, almost just for him. He nods, looks into Steve’s baby blues and a soft timid smile creeps its way onto his face, he can’t help it, the effect this man has on him. He’s like a magnet. He barely knows Steve and somehow he's been under his skin since the moment he stepped into the train with Bucky all those months ago. Bucky likes it, the warmth of the pull Steve has on him, soft and gentle, and if Steve is coming back to Brooklyn, maybe Bucky could welcome some warmth into his life. But he's also terrified. He feels the fear crawling up his bones because, again, he barely knows the guy. Bucky knows better than to trust strangers, he knows better than to let his walls down.

“See you” he says, awkward and quick;  turns around and gets out of the flat like the devil’s on his tail.

Sam looks at him but knows better than to ask anything right now. So they walk in silent company until they reach Sam’s building and hug goodbye. 

Bucky makes the last few blocks to his place in a daze, doesn’t really register anything until he’s turning the key on his apartament door.

He still feels Steve’s eyes on him, his warm embrace still lingers. He closes his eyes, fighting the sting and the hot tears of the anxiety already growing, tries to take some calming deep breaths as he feels his throat closing up.

He’s royally fucked, he thinks, and flops down onto his bed.

His anxiety gets the better of him this time, and it's just another night of barely any sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes Needs A Hug™
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi!](http://buckymademedoit.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
